Green Fairy (Dangerous Spirits) (19 page)

His mother spoke up. “You can’t expect Sol to stay for the entire night.”

“We’ll find out this weekend,” his father said. “Eh, boy?” Sol chewed a mouthful of mayonnaise-y bean salad and nodded. “You talk to Mr. Zerling?”

Sol shook his head. “But I’m doing everything he told me to.” Except working on his decision-making, and how could he demonstrate that if they wouldn’t give him the chance?

“All right, then. As long as you’re giving it a hundred and ten percent.” His father let it drop there, and Sol quelled the flutter of trepidation as best he could.

The week passed in a rush of classes and hot, humid afternoons. Tanny and the other coyotes let Sol be, plus or minus a few projectile carrot sticks, and his conversations with Tsarev and Meg were brief and distracted. The impending game occupied more and more of his mind, kept his tail wagging and his foot tapping, and his pencil chewed to pieces. He barely thought about Niki and Jean, and only had time for short, quick bursts of affection with Carcy.

By Friday, he was barely able to focus enough to write down his homework for Monday, let alone pay attention to the lessons or think about Tsarev. He and the rest of the team missed their afternoon classes anyway, to get on the bus and drive the forty minutes to Huxley.

Traditionally, the starters got on the bus first, then the backups. Sol had to walk past all the starters sitting in front before sitting halfway back with Jeremy, the armadillo whose main talent was catching fly balls. Fortunately, Jeremy didn’t seem to mind Sol’s foot-tapping or tail-wagging; in fact, he didn’t even comment on it. After an initial attempt to talk to Sol about the Typhoons, he gave up and just stared out the window.

Sol rubbed the back of his paw. The closer the game got, the more he wondered if he really had a chance to gain his spot back. In the thick of practice, immersing himself in the world of baseball, he’d not given much thought to what the end result would be, finding in himself some optimism that he’d found a way back out of the hole he’d dug himself into. But he recalled again the whipshot cracks of Taric’s line drives, the chatter of the coyote with the players, and the way the ball seemed to leap out of his paws. The best Sol could do was point to his dedication and improved hitting—if he’d improved.

But Mr. Zerling would see that, would appreciate Sol’s dedication. If he got some chances in today’s game, Sol would definitely show the old wolf how much he’d learned, how much he deserved to have his spot back. The team had seen his dedication, Xavy was his friend again, sort of, and they would all see through Taric’s transparent attempts to win their favor with insincere compliments. They’d see Sol’s hard work and they’d know how much he could mean to them.

Besides, Carcy and Meg were counting on him. Most importantly, he was counting on himself. This game was going to get him out of his home, out of this small town, away to the big city where he could be gay without looking over his shoulder, where Carcy wouldn’t care if he ate vegetables, where they could go to clubs like the Moulin Rouge and live in small, dirty apartments, sharing the comforts of love and art.

The more he thought about that, the more nervous he got; his tail stopped wagging and just twitched against the seat, and he rubbed the back of his paw harder and harder. Just relax, he told himself, relax, because if you tense up, you’ll just make it worse.

Still, he was so nervous, pacing around before the game, that he had to excuse himself, go to the bathroom, and text Carcy, sitting on the tank behind the toilet.

Big game coming up. Got to do well or might not get starting spot back.

And no starting spot meant no car, and no car meant no visit to Carcy. The ram had to care about that, didn’t he? He always sounded unruffled when they discussed it, which Sol had taken for Carcy’s faith in him. But for all his confidence over the past week, now that the moment had arrived, his own faith in himself could use a boost. He rocked back and forth, staring at his phone. He only had a few minutes.

His phone stayed dead. If he waited one more minute, the coaches would come banging on the doors looking for him. Of course, that had been when he was starting. It occurred to him that it would be worse if they did not.

So he slid off the tank and out of the restroom, getting back to the dugout in time to avoid any reprimand other than a glare from Mr. Zerling. Then he had to turn his phone off for the game, and the national anthem was playing, and he was on the edge of the bench, watching the game.

The bad part was, Taric was outstanding. The way he leapt for each ball, the way his throws slammed into the first baseman’s glove, and his aggressive stance at the plate all looked to Sol as if the coyote, too, were fighting for escape. He rubbed the back of his paw and curled his tail around his hip and thought, just, please, give me a chance. When the other players on the bench joked about their opponents, about the field, he was too tense to join in the first time. Then he thought of a good line and couldn’t keep it in, and the ensuing laughter relaxed him, to his surprise. These were his teammates too, after all. So he made an effort to talk to them throughout the game, all the while keeping his eye on the field, and Taric in particular.

The good part was that Huxley High’s team was terrible. Their pitcher gave up six runs in the first inning (Taric hit a double and then stole third), and two more in the second before their coach replaced him. By that time, the game was pretty much out of reach, since Richfield had a lion pitching who was on his game, shutting down Huxley’s lineup. So in the fifth, Mr. Zerling took Taric out (with a pat on the butt and a generous “you done a game’s work already”) and put Sol in.

He felt transformed. Xavy stayed in at third and threw the ball to Sol before innings, just like he’d used to. Crouched in the field, watching the batter, Sol felt the weeks of practice behind him as confidence in his ability, assurance that when he dove for a ground ball, he’d come up with it and throw out the batter. And he was part of the team again, in the field.

Between innings, he stood with the other players, ears perked, and listened to the coaches. They told him about the upcoming batters, where to shift to field for the different hitters; they told him about the pitcher and what kind of pitches he threw. Sol absorbed the information, and it made sense to him out on the diamond, and he danced over the field with (he thought) grace and confidence.

He got three chances in the infield, all routine ground balls, and none of them challenges. He made the putouts at first as quickly and efficiently as he could. Blue-grey clouds blanketed the sky out of nowhere, which made it easier for Sol to see the ball, and he took advantage of Nature’s gift. Both times he came to bat, he hit the ball well; once it dropped for a hit, and the second time the center fielder made a spectacular leap to rob him.

“Good hit,” Mr. Zerling said as Sol jogged back to the dugout. “Nice hustle out there.” Xavy gave him a pat, and so did a couple of the other players. The batting coach told him he’d really improved his swing. Taric, leaning back on the bench chatting with the pitcher, didn’t even spare Sol a look. Didn’t matter; it wasn’t the coyote’s approval he was looking for. He gulped down a full cup of water and rested back in the shade, listening to the coaches talk, tail wagging against the bench. His teammates elbowed him, joked with him, and he joked back. Nobody mentioned his vegetarianism, even when they talked about getting hot dogs after the game. Sol grinned and panted and relaxed, thinking not only about the team, but about his summer and Carcy and all the rest of the year ahead of him.

They won the game, and piled onto the bus in high spirits, even though it was hot inside and they were all overheated and panting or sweating. On the way back, someone much nearer the front than Sol asked Mr. Zerling about the Lakeside game, and the grey wolf stepped out into the center aisle, tongue hanging out. “We’ve got Harmony next week and then Lakeside the week after that. I talked to the coaches, and we’ve decided who’s going to start at Lakeside. We’re going to go with Stew here,” he gestured to the lion, “to start.”

The bus generally murmured approval. Sol half-stood to look over the bus, his tail still, his blood now much colder than the hot, sticky air on the bus. Mr. Zerling nodded to a raccoon two seats behind him. “And of course, Chuck starts next week.” The wolf raised a paw. “Good game, team. Get some rest. You earned it.”

Sol bit his lip. His paw shot in the air before he could stop it, before Mr. Zerling could turn around. “Yeah, Wrightson?”

“Um.” Everyone in front turned around to look at him. Taric’s eyes, dark grey, bored into him. “We talked about…” Please, please, don’t make me say it out loud on the bus.

The team fell silent. Sol expected to see at least a few encouraging smiles, some of the team looking back at him or giving him thumbs-ups, but not one of them looked up. Taric, a few rows in front of him, talked in a low voice with the fox who played center field. Sol couldn’t hear their words, but the coyote’s muzzle was stretched in a lazy grin and he was paying no attention to Sol or Mr. Zerling, though his ears were up and flicking back and forth.

“Oh, right.” Mr. Zerling rubbed a paw over his muzzle. “We’re going to stick with this lineup for the Lakeside game. You guys are really coming together as a team.”

Just like that. With those few words, it was over.

All the work, the two weeks of practice, of fooling himself that he could play baseball, of ignoring everything else in his life, it was all for nothing. The disappointment lodged in his throat, thankfully never rising to the pressure of tears.

He sat on the bus until everyone else had left, and then he got up and trudged out. Xavy and Taric and a couple of the other wolves were standing around talking. Xavy raised a paw to Sol and said, “Nice game,” which was nice, but on the whole, Sol would have preferred that he keep quiet, because that made Taric turn around and laugh.

“Better,” the coyote said, “but a long way from the best, am I right?”

His smirk twisted the knot in Sol’s throat, turning up the pressure. The black wolf just raised a paw to Xavy and kept walking, Taric’s laughter echoing in his ears all the way to his father’s car.

On the way home, his father asked him about the game, and Sol rattled off his stats, heading off any question about the lineup for the Lakeside game as long as possible. His father might have sensed something, because he just said, “Sounds like Mr. Zerling gave you some good playing time and you made the most of it.”

“Tried to.” Sol knew he wasn’t doing a good job of disguising his mood. His ears were back and his tail was tightly wound and he was staring down at his lap. He shouldn’t have looked that way after a great performance and a win.

“Typhoons are at home next week. Think you might want to go?”

“Sure.” Even that one word was hard to choke out, because he knew that by the time that game came around, he would have to have told his father the bad news. After that, his father wouldn’t want to take him down to the park, let alone to Vidalia for a baseball game.

Dinner was a series of silverware-on-china clinks punctuated by short questions and monosyllabic answers, as Sol headed off any conversation that might lead to baseball, even the discussion of the Typhoons game. His father happily shifted to the upcoming football draft and who the Millenport Orcas needed versus who they would stupidly pick, which conversation did not require participation from Sol. And then dinner was over, and Sol practically leapt from his chair. “I gotta go to Meg’s and work on our project,” Sol told his parents as he was clearing his dishes.

“There’s raisin spice cake,” his mother said brightly.

“Maybe when I get back.” Sol grabbed his bag and walked out the door. While it was true that he had to go to Meg’s, it was more because he couldn’t bear to stay a moment longer in his comfortable stone house, where the confrontation with his father loomed overhead every moment, where he couldn’t escape the scents of his parents anywhere.

It had started to shower lightly, but not enough to bother Sol. The rain suited his mood, and so did the darkness, with the clouds blotting out the moon and stars. No crickets sounded; the only noise was the hiss of rain on asphalt and grass, and the splash of his footsteps through the wet night. Even if it started to rain harder while he was at Meg’s, part of him relished the idea of arriving home soaking wet. His mother would feel sorry for him; the moment when he had to admit his failure would be postponed still further.

Nobody else was out on the street on the way over, but Meg’s parents were in the outdoor pool, enjoying the rain. Meg herself came to the door to let him in. “Hey, stranger,” she said. “How’s the Jock Quest going?”

“Over.” Sol followed her to her room and kicked the door closed. He dropped his bag with a thud and brushed water from the fur on his arms. “Mr. Zerling isn’t going to start me in the Lakeside game.”

She turned and stared. “Fuck me.”

He dropped to the floor, knees up, damp tail curled around his hips. “I did everything I could. Two weeks just isn’t enough to make up for months of…” The knot pushed at the walls of his throat, his failure lodged below his tongue. He sighed. “Or to beat that coyote.”

“He still giving you shit?”

“Some. His sister—”

“She’s a bitch. Glued my locker shut in ninth grade.”

Sol’s ears flicked. “Why?”

“Because she’s a psycho bitch. Listen, the real question is, how the fuck are we getting to Millenport without a car?”

Sol shrugged. “Bus?”

“We’re gonna lug everything we want to move to the city with to the bus stop and then carry it to my cousin’s and your boyfriend’s place? You can do that if you want. Why don’t you just get him to come down and pick us up?”

He sighed. “I still don’t know if he’ll let me move in. He said there were ‘things he had to work out.’” And Carcy hadn’t texted him back—oh. He’d never turned his phone back on after the baseball game. He dug it out of his pocket and mashed the power button.

Meg snorted. “It’s just for a summer. Then you go off to Charleton College to become a computer nerd, which, by the way—”

He knew what Meg thought of his major, and the fact that he mostly agreed with her didn’t mean he needed to hear it again. “Any chance your parents would take us?” The phone came up slowly, and then buzzed with a text message from Carcy.
I’m sure you can perform. :)
Sol closed it without answering.

“To the evil center of corporate greed and the murder capital of the southeast? Fat chance.” Meg rolled her eyes. “I don’t guess your parents would.”

Sol stuck the phone back in his pocket. “Mom’s already crying about me leaving in the fall, and Dad won’t even drive me across the street once he hears how I…how I fucked up the baseball team.” The swear made him feel uneasy, but once he’d said it, the knot in his throat released somewhat. The problem was, what it was releasing felt like it might turn into tears. He fought to hold them back, because he didn’t want to upset Meg any more than he already had.

She stayed quiet after that, tapping on her keyboard. Whether she was giving him time to collect himself or just searching for some other way to get out of Midland, he didn’t know, but he stared at his knees and breathed evenly, until the pressure on his throat decreased further. Summer seemed a long way off, and college an eternity away. All he could think about was this next night, and the next two months, going back into the school where everyone scorned him, where he would forever be a second string, with no friends who could do anything for him but commiserate. If only Carcy could come to the school, could walk up to Mr. Zerling and point at Sol and say, “I want him,” and take Sol away from all of this.

“We’ll figure it out,” Meg said. She slid down to sit on the floor with him, holding the bottle of absinthe. Her smile was a bright line in her black-furred face.

She started to say something else, but when she’d moved to the floor, the bright screen of her laptop drew Sol’s eye. On it, a hollow-eyed fox with ragged fur stared back at him, one ear scarred and mutilated, and Sol thought of Niki, all in a rush, and jerked forward before he realized that the fox on Meg’s laptop had brown eyes, that he was older, that he was, in fact, Vincent van Gogh and not a Siberian fox dancer.

“What’s wrong?” Meg craned her head back toward her curtained window. “Ronald and Valinda making noise in the pool outside?”

“No, just…” Sol looked down from van Gogh and rested his head back against the wall. “Sorry, I thought I saw…I mean, that van Gogh picture is creepy.”

“All the pictures of him are creepy. But you jumped like you saw a ghost or something.”

Sol shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I don’t know what there is to figure out. I don’t have a car, I don’t have a team, I don’t have anything.”

“You got me. And you promised to get me to Millenport and I ain’t gonna let you slide out of that just because you don’t have a car. Right?”

“I guess.”

“You guess. You better be sure. Come on, who are the two smartest seniors in the whole damn high school?”

“Tara Soben and Rob Carter?”

Meg play-swatted at his face. “They’re the best memorizers. They can vomit back anything a teacher says onto a test, and that’s all the teachers grade on. I mean, who are the best at—oh, fuck it, you know what I mean. You and me, we’ll beat this fucking town or die trying.”

Sol eyed the bottle. “Better problem-solving through chemistry?”

“Figured you could use a drink. Want this, or something from the liquor cabinet? The folks have kelp wine and cooking sherry.”

Sol stuck his tongue out. “That’s all, really?”

“I can get you the good pot if you want it.”

“Jesus, Meg.”

She shrugged. “Suit y’self. Though it’d really help.”

The paint and the ribbon surfaced in his memory, but he remained numb. If the dream world wanted to carry him away, then it could have him. It couldn’t be any worse than what was left for him here. And he missed Niki. The fox, at least, was escaping from his own prison, and Sol wanted to watch. “Can you do the ritual?”

Meg gave a little snort of laughter. “Now you want the ritual.”

“You said we can’t drink it out of the bottle.”

“You want me to light the candles, too?” She got to her feet. “Scoot, I need to get to the kitchen to get the sugar and the goblets.”

Sol stood too, and stepped back out of her way. “I’ll light the candles.”

He found comfort in the small, fragile flame, the way it held on to the candle wick as he touched the small match to each one of them. Out of Meg’s window, he could see sparkles of light as the rain hit the pool, but he didn’t want to look too closely for fear of seeing her parents. The darkness beyond the pool was absolute: no fireflies, no moon, no stars. Sol looked away from it, back at the steady flame of the candle, and he forced himself to breathe more evenly.

Meg returned before he was done. She said, “Don’t burn anything,” as he lit an incense stick and the smell of frankincense filled the air.

“Like you couldn’t just throw it in the pool.” Sol closed his eyes and breathed in the fragrant spice. He sat back on the bed and let the rich, sharp scent take him away from the memories of the day.

“That’s not the point,” Meg said, but Sol barely heard her. His muscles still ached, but for the first time since the game had ended, his chest didn’t feel like a coil of barbed wire. Anise wafted toward his nose, joining the incense; he opened his eyes and saw Meg holding out a goblet of milky green liquid to him.

“Prepare to receive the gift of the Green Fairy,” she said. “May she show us the solution to our problems.”

“Someone has to.” Sol raised his glass to Meg’s.

To himself, he said,
may she show me more of Niki
. As afraid as he had been of another spot of paint, another ribbon, at least they were his experiences. He didn’t have to wait for Mr. Zerling or his father to tell him he could have them.

They sipped the absinthe, and Sol waited for the warm feeling to steal over him again. Meg sat and watched him. “That help?”

“Some,” Sol said.

Meg swirled the drink before taking another sip. “You know, artists used to sit around and talk about philosophy and art with this stuff.”

“Life sucks. Does that count as philosophy?”

“Take another drink.” Meg shook her head, and draped one arm over the back of her chair. “You know, you get like one night to be like this and then you better snap back to your regular goofy self. It’s fucking exhausting being the cheerful one. I dunno how you do it.”

“I don’t know how I did it either.” Sol filled his mouth with absinthe, let the sharp smell sting his nose, let the liquid burn his throat. It seared away the pressure, distracted him from thoughts of peach canneries and Bible-thumping uncles and frustration at a four-hour separation from Carcy. That made him think of Jean and Niki, and his paws tingled with the urge to see them again.

“Can I read on the bed?”

Meg’s eyebrows lowered, and her grin soured. “That’s it? That’s your big discussion about art? ‘Can I read on the bed?’”

“It’s for the project.”

She looked at him a moment longer, then shrugged and assumed her usual weary scorn. “Knock yourself out.”

He stretched out on her bed and pulled up his phone. A blinking light indicated he still had not answered Carcy’s message. I know, he told it silently, and pulled up “Confession.”